


The Story of Light Falling

by toodelicatee



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bruce Banner Feels, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Clint Feels, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hulkeye - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lust, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Very dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:55:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5034553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toodelicatee/pseuds/toodelicatee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will remember this night for the rest of his life, even if Bruce is gone by morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of Light Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. So I am becoming slightly enamoured of this ship, but not as much as Bruce x Tony- I couldn't betray them.
> 
> This is incredibly, incredibly dark and disturbing. It contains mentions of really horrific childhood abuse so please be careful if this stuff is triggering to you. Stay safe. I write darkly because these characters do have brutal burdens and when you gloss over that, you lose the essence of the character. Such traumatic events cling to a person and they form parts of who they are, so I feel I cannot write Bruce or Clint without including these things. And I write violence although I hate it because I find it very easy to write about, although I wish I didn't.
> 
> I'm experimenting with a new writing style in this as well. Ernest Hemingway has changed my entire outlook on literature. Bless that man!
> 
> I hope you like, and as always- please, please leave feedback. X

The very first time they touch each other it's after a mission. Clint has been careful around this man for some time now, ever since hearing Natasha's recollection of what happened on the Helicarrier. He's never had the same luck as her; the Hulk would tear him asunder, and all he'd be able to do would be bleed out, inevitably, soundlessly.  
  
But now there are no medics aboard the Quinjet, he has a cut so deep in his chest he can see the outline of pale ribs and Bruce is the only Avenger with any medical practice.  
  
Clint doesn't really have a choice.  
  
Bruce's hand hovers in the air above the wound. In the empty space between them is a lingering reluctance. Clint feels half-bad. Bruce must be so goddamn sick of being treated like a leper, he thinks.  
  
No- like a grenade. As though constantly on the verge of destroying everything that breathes.  
  
The archer feels guilty, because Bruce never asked for the cards he had been dealt.  
  
When the doctor's fingers finally meet the mess of bloody flesh, Clint doesn't wince or cringe or shy. He inhales sharply instead; he'd not been expecting such softness. The touch is lighter than sand grains. He analyses it and decides it feels like rain.  
  
'Am I hurting you?'  
  
Clint shakes his head. 'Carry on, doc.'

 

\--

 

Bruce isn't cruel in any way, Clint learns. He is the most gentle man the archer has ever met. He moves around the way ghosts must and he never blames anyone other than himself. Even when he is not at fault.  
  
Sometimes this is insignifcant.  
  
And other times it breaks Clint's heart.

 

\--

 

'You not drinking anything strong, doc?' He slides into the vacant chair next to Bruce, beside the window. The rest of the team are close to drunkenness but the two of them cradle glasses of apple juice.  
  
Bruce re-positions himself so that Clint has more room than he does. He takes a sip of his drink and sets it down before folding his arms across his chest. It's normal for Bruce to shrink, Clint has learned through observation. It's a way to compensate for the Other Guy being so bold- to make himself as small as possible.  
  
'I don't drink alcohol.'  
  
Clint nods. 'Me neither.' He waits for a minute, and for the first time notices a tremble in Bruce's hand. For some reason he just knows it has always been there. 'My Dad was a nasty drunk.'  
  
'Mine too.' Bruce is practically whispering. He's so quiet that Clint strains to hear.   
  
'Shit.' He mutters because he doesn't know what else he can say. Their eyes meet somehow in the cracked, semi-darkness and it is Bruce who flinches first.  
  
'So...' The doctor fumbles with his fingers; the action looks effortless, as though he is well-versed in awkwardness and Clint guesses that he probably is. 'What did yours do?'  
  
The question is intimate and prying, but it feels like it belongs in the infinitesimal space between their two seats.  
  
'He used to knock me around, you know. Threw a few dozen punches here and there, week in, week out.' Clint scoffs. 'I wish he were still alive now for me and my arrows to teach him a lesson or two.'  
  
Bruce closes his eyes. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I'm an idiot...'  
  
Sometimes Clint thinks the man's heart must be discoloured from all the loathing he has for himself.  
  
'No, no.' The archer reassures him, or at least tries to. 'It's okay. I don't mind talking about it to you.'  
  
He's not sure why he says that last part- probably because it is true. He would never discuss these things with anyone else, never let himself appear so vulnerable. However, this is Bruce. A man so exposed his gamma-irradiated nerves are on display to anyone and everyone- the whole world can see how shot to hell they are.  
  
'I'm still sorry.'  
  
'Well don't be.' It's a stupid thing to say. Anyone who knows the timid doctor knows that he could never stop being sorry. Even when the only thing he has left to apologise for is the breath coming out of his lungs, he will still be sorry. 'He's dead now anyway.'  
  
Bruce stays quiet.  
  
'What about your old man then?'  
  
Quietness, still.  
  
'You can tell me.' Clint pushes. He sees muscles in Bruce's jaw clench but he still presses him. He wants Bruce to open up for him, the way flower petals do for sunlight. 'Honestly, you can doc.'  
  
Bruce eventually shrugs. 'He used to hurt me.' His voice is so hollow that it almost echoes; stale sadness drips from every word. 'He beat me. And he'd hurt me another way too.' He could have stopped there- the picture had already been painted- but he carries on, his voice crackling like a fire dying slowly. 'He'd drag me out to the garden shed, take off my pyjamas and he'd force me to do things. I didn't even know what they were when it first started- I was seven.'  
  
Clint has to remember to breathe. He can't think when he'd last felt this sick. He sees Bruce's eyes and they are huge, suddenly illuminated by a thin spill of light from the bar. It pours between them, not over them.  
  
'Jesus Christ.' In that moment, they are the only two words his mouth knows.  
  
That night he tries to sleep but his mind prefers war. He thinks about a shaking little boy in a garden shed with a head full of wondering- wondering if things would always be that way. For a brief moment he imagines young Bruce's eyes, numb as he does what he's forced to, and Clint barely makes it to the bathroom before he retches up his guts. He feels like he's drunk a gallon of whiskey.   
  
He finishes vomiting just as sleep takes him. The bathroom tiles are colder than Natasha's voice and the toilet seat is nowhere near as warm as her smirks, as he uses it as his pillow. He stays there all night, knowing fine well he cannot make it back to the bedroom.

 

\--

 

When they finally sleep together it feels a bit like coming home. To a place he has always wanted to know, but never has had chance.  
  
Bruce initiates, much to Clint's surprise.  
  
They are stood in the elevator. One second they are talking, some mindless chatter about daily activities, and then suddenly the doctor takes a step forward and brushes both their lips together.  
  
'Can I...?'  
  
He has no time to finish the question because Clint closes the short distance separating them and kisses deep.  
  
But never rough.  
  
He checks if  Bruce is comfortable, if he truly wants this. When he receives an affirmative the archer runs a hand through coal black curls and moves his mouth against a tan neck. He works up to Bruce's wide-open mouth once more, breathes, hoping to fill the doctor up- he always seems so achingly empty.   
  
When Bruce moves inside him, Clint can feel starlight as though it were something to be touched by, not simply see in the sky, miles away.  
  
As he comes he tells Bruce that he loves him. He's never sure if he means those words when he says them, especially during/after an orgasm. But they are holding each other and it feels so warm that all doubt leaves him.  
  
He'll remember this night for the rest of his life, even if Bruce is gone by morning.

 

\--

 

Clint wakes alone. Bruce is nowhere in the Tower and at midday Jarvis announces that _the good doctor has departed for India.  
_

 

_\--  
_

 

A few weeks later, the archer receives a postcard.  
  
_I'm so sorry but you deserve better than a monster, Clint. I'll always be danger._

_Bruce._

 

_\--_

 

Clint sleeps with many different people after that. He fucks them with his eyes shut, so he can pretend the other body belongs to a long-gone doctor.  
  
Sometimes he will open his eyes, on the rare occasion that he feels more than just hard. But even then, he knows he will never want someone the way he wanted Bruce.  
  
The way he still wants him... will always.

 

\--

 

Clint wouldn't hurt this goddamn much if Bruce had mentioned something about love in the postcard, but he never did.  
  
So Clint has to live wondering, never forgetting.


End file.
